Tiger Chronicles: Guide To Ruin
by Crazy Rob
Summary: Suddenly promoted from grunt labor to a new project of R.A.W., the Wellfields are asked to sacrifice all they have left- their past, their identity, and their daughter- to promote a book as helpful to parenting as gasoline is to fire-fighting... a guide to ruin. Faced with slander and unthinking mobs, Calvin and his allies must fight once again for both the truth... and survival.
1. Concerns

Tiger Chronicles: Guide To Ruin

Chapter I: Concerns

DISCLAIMER: I don't own Calvin and Hobbes, Foxtrot, Curtis, etc. This is a fan-made piece of fiction designed to provide hopefully entertaining reading material and encourage thought among young readers.

DISCLAIMER 2: There have been so many tragedies between the last time I published and now that trying to address them all in a story would be both futile and insulting to the victims.

…

**NOVEMBER, 2012**

Matthew Wellfields had to get used to a number of very radical changes in short order when he joined R.A.W.

The first, and most difficult, was that he was not going to be in a significant position of authority. Things had gone south, Riley Goabes curtly noted, during the evacuation procedure. Some of the softer hearted members of his congregation did not take well to news that their children would not be rehabilitated but rather left to die in a fiery cataclysm. They had been shot. The effect that sight had on the former members of the "Church of the Unyielding Rod" had been severe, to say the least.

They no longer respected Matthew, who had promised them that while their children would be punished harshly, there was still hope that some might be saved. In wake of his promises being proven meaningless, there was more rioting, met with swift execution. Of the few that remained, they obeyed only out of fear, but it was obvious the loathing they had for Matthew would taint any authority he was given over them.

So they had been shunted off to fill the menial labors that Rod and Whip needed. Manual labor for most. The 'lucky' ones got assigned to be trained as Breakers, the euphemism R.A.W. used for those assigned to torture children. Many couldn't stomach the deeds assigned and were killed, but to Matthew's horror, some were becoming incredibly adept, bragged about by their instructors loudly.

It had been those few parents, the ones who saw their children as punching bags and nothing more, that had taken his teachings to heart, and that made it all the more worse- for years, Matthew and his wife, Grace, had preached a false gospel. They spoke of divine revelations that never came, of God telling them the only salvation for their sinful daughter was perpetual beatings and degradation. The initial reason for their lying had been a cover-up for her bruises, and it had spiraled into an intricate web of deceiving parents into beating their children daily to prevent disobedience.

The 'sinful' part was a lie too, he remembered with a shudder. Faith hadn't had a chance to **do** any actual wrong before they started flogging her every day, but that hadn't stopped Matthew and Grace from concocting wild stories about her trying to sacrifice small animals to Satan, dealing drugs, and getting into demonic orgies. She had fled the house eventually, necessitating the church's fleeing into the arms of R.A.W. before the law came down on their heads.

That was part of the other changes as well. No Faith to order around. He was responsible for his own food, his own messes, his own tiny little cot he shared in a room full of dozens of other men- he and his wife were not permitted to sleep together.

His dress consisted of simple, drab uniforms. He had little to no free time. When he wasn't sleeping, eating, or on the toilet, he was doing manual labor, cleaning, or "preaching" to the children locked up in the compound he was in, demoralizing them with twisting of scriptures meant to destroy any hope of salvation, in this life or the next.

He had learned quickly that R.A.W. was not content with merely making one's death as painful as possible, they sought to, if at all possible, damn the soul to perpetual torment as well. They had people like him for every faith- Islam, Judaism, Buddhism, Shinto, Hinduism… an army of doom-preachers to ensure no matter what a child's religious beliefs, they would be convinced that only greater torment awaited them after death, making them hateful of whatever deity they believed in and, hopefully, blasphemous enough to be damned.

Riley had explained it as being a boon no matter which way your beliefs ran- atheist members saw the benefits of demoralization, while the religious members delighted in the idea that their prisoners would not escape their suffering even in death.

That was the final, worst change. He was no longer in any sort of façade of trying to redeem children. That was not R.A.W.'s goal now, nor ever would it be. Save for the rarest of the rarest children like Barry Wilkins so sadistic that R.A.W. recognized them as one of their own, the agenda was nothing short but utter physical, mental, and hopefully spiritual destruction. He could not, would not speak out. To do so meant death. His only option was, it seemed, to maintain a façade of stoicism until he went insane or his superiors deemed him a liability and shot him.

As of now, however, he and his wife were in a room, sitting at a table, awaiting instruction from a senior member of R.A.W. He had, somehow, suppressed the urge to hug her after not seeing her in what felt like forever, wary of the watchful eyes of their superiors, and to both his relief and sorrow, she had too.

She wore no make up. Her hair was briskly washed. She looked tired, irritable, and ready to cry at any given moment. She stared straight ahead, blinking at regular intervals, hands in her lap.

The dark green jumpsuits they wore were freshly washed, but still bore the stains of blood and grease that the quick, economical detergent they were allowed could not erase. His was too tight, hers too loose. It was just another minor, insufferable indignity he had learned to not openly complain about in what he now believed to be hell's military division.

Finally, after hours of waiting, Riley Goabes entered the room, carrying a briefcase. He was well dressed as opposed to the rank and file workers, almost like he was ready for another day at the office.

"I trust you have both gained a great deal of appreciation for what we sacrifice when we come here." He began. "We can spare very few luxuries, less so nowadays, with attention being focused on our camp fronts." He smiled as he took a seat. "I am pleased to hear that the substantial decrease in living quality, however, has not diminished the potency of either of your sermons."

So they had made her preach hateful, damning perversions of scripture as well. _At least,_ he thought bitterly, _it's something we're both used to doing._

"I do have good news, though. Your ability to lead and demoralize have been noted. It's a shame your former audience no longer respects you, but given the circumstances, it is understandable."

"Thank you, sir." They replied in eerie unison. Matthew tried not to wince at how broken his wife sounded. There was no joy, no emotion at all in her voice, just a flat, removed _absence_ of a person.

"To that end, you two are being put in charge of a special project. It's going to take some adaptation, mind, but nothing too serious. Replace "God" with "Neo-parenting techniques" and you get the gist of it. The upshot is, we're giving you new lives as Mr. and Mrs. Malefides. You've just published this."

And he slid them two copies of a book entitled "Get With The Program!: Tough Love for Tough Kids", on which was a cartoonish mother and father simultaneously kicking the posteriors of a cartoonish boy and girl in punkish clothes.

"You will be provided accommodations, money, a car. Squandering any of your resources will not be treated lightly, do **not do so**. If you think you have seen the bottom of the barrel workers at R.A.W. can experience, let me assure you: it gets far worse. You will be attending a talk show interview and press conference about the book. It is imperative you both know it front to cover. You could consider it, for the time being…" he smiled slightly. "…your new bible."

Now they were being asked to adopt an entire new identity. It struck Matthew as how horrible it must be that the demand to discard the entirety of his former life for a new one was the best thing that had happened in months.

"Of course," Goabes shrugged, "if this is too much too fast, I can find someone else."

"No, sir!" interjected Grace quickly. She looked pleadingly to Matthew, who spoke quickly. "We'll do it. Give us the names, the history, we'll memorize it all…"

"I'm sure you will." Goabes said with no trace of sarcasm whatsoever. "Perform well, and your accommodations will be more permanent, and, dare I say, more pleasant that what you have now. Just remember- we will be watching you. Take this assignment as seriously as if your life depended on it, because, frankly, it does." Goabes' face was suddenly deathly serious. "I assure you- nothing R.A.W. will do to you if this flops will compare to what they do to deserters."

Then the grim mask was gone, replaced with a disturbingly serene smile. "Any questions? None? Good. You both have appointments with plastic surgeons in five hours."

They were going to change their faces as well?

Matthew's initial shock at the idea was squelched when he recalled just how damning going out in public with his current face would be.

The idea of discarding his identity entirely and starting over was becoming less and less terrifying with every moment.

…

"_Investigations into R.A.W. have met with multiple obstacles. First and foremost is the complete isolation of most recruits from the outside world, making contact with agents a difficult, if not impossible endeavor. The stringent training process R.A.W. uses to decide which recruits graduate to anything beyond menial labor involves abusing children to such degrees that multiple agents have committed suicide upon retrieval."_

"_Reports taken from the survivors of Facility #23 in the Summer of 2012 have confirmed what scant reports suggested- there is no attempt at turning the children into soldiers, long term slaves, or reconditioning them into the level of obedience the camp fronts offer. The goal is simply psychological and physiological devastation, culminating in execution. Rod and Whip recruits known child abusers and molesters to this end. It is imperative that every report of R.A.W. activity be treated with the highest priority- this is, without a doubt, a terrorist organization with nothing but destruction on the agenda."_

"_Ransom demands are made, but have never successfully resulted in a recovery. Given the means at which they have at their disposal, it is doubtful that the organization can sustain itself on mere ransom demands. Investigations are being made into where the organizations considerable resources are stemming from…"_

-Excerpt from CIA report on Rod and Whip

…...

**JANUARY**

Christmas came and went, residual cheer diminishing quickly. New Years celebrations were a subdued affair in Newden- there was a hospital to rebuild and people were still reeling in shock after the attacks perpetrated by Highweller.

School came early in the midst of slushy rain and freezing wind, forcing students to huddle together as they waited at bus stops. What had begun as the touted "winter wonderland" was quickly becoming a hell of ice, wet, and cold.

Calvin had found the upside of this to be that he and Susie had a very legitimate reason to be close, but that faded when both discovered, to their displeasure, it did little to alleviate the chill. Nonetheless, they were often seen walking side by side into school, shivering, thawing, scraping off snow off each other as they shrugged off heavy coats and trudged to class.

His reinstatement in the school newspaper had been well received by all, fortunately. Calvin's brand of snark and dry humor made his articles on school goings-on more tolerable, as otherwise his mandatory reports on school sports or new incentives would be as appealing as watching paint dry.

"_For those of you who have regained enough feeling in your fingers to pick up a copy of the school paper and not use it for immediate kindling, I have good news- the school board has decided, at Spittle's insistence, that our time would be spent better learning than thawing. To that end several space heaters have been purchased to help with the defrosting process we have grown to know and love."_

Yet he appreciated the dull monotony.

It was a break from people trying to kill him for stupid, pointless reasons, or Susie for even stupider, more pointless reasons. No more students dying because a grown man was having a temper tantrum. No lunatic cops trying to assassinate him in the hallways. His main concerns now were his grades, stable for now, and spell-checking the paper.

People still spoke to him, revered him as some sort of immortal, but they did so at a respectful distance, partly because Calvin had made it clear he was no god of retribution that held all the answers, and partly because no one wanted to gain the ire of someone who now had thirty confirmed kills, multiple injuries, and God-only-knew how many dead at the compound. In the eyes of the survivors of the Newden school shooting, Calvin was their avenger, the one who had made sure that each life taken from then was repaid with equal death and interest.

Andrew Derkins had taught him a mantra, handed down to him by his commander, to stave off the madness that inevitably threatened one's mind when they took a life, something to keep a semblance of sanity as he tried to act normal: "I did what was necessary."

But was it? Could there have been a better way to evacuate those he had in the compound, besides gunning down adults set on killing him? Would the world be better off if he had been less murderous in the applications of his power when he rescued Susie? Could he have stunned when he had killed?

Then the bitter, cynical part of him offered its counter-argument, that these… sadist scum and their single-minded destructiveness were too rigid to allow the transmogrifier to work in such ways. Quicksand bogs to slow them down, their pants all simultaneously dropping, any number of non-fatal obstacles… these would not fit into the reality they saw. They only understood fire, violence, and gunshot wounds. Even if he _had_ spared them, what then? Would Highweller have had more troops to rally? Would the mop up operations have gone as smoothly as they had?

"I did what was necessary." He said aloud.

Not that anyone heard him. He was alone, the sole occupant of the newspaper room, at a monitor that held the unfinished version of his article for the paper. It wasn't very insightful, nor did it offer oft requested methods as to how to survive a gunfight. (Spittle had outright vetoed those.) It was rather dry despite his attempts to spruce it up with snark, but there was only so much enthusiasm he could possibly drum up for heaters and athletics.

He typed and typed, stared and stared, and finally produced something passable. Finally, that was done.

The bell rang, jarring him slightly. There were three more classes to go. Not that he had a whole lot to worry about: the teachers had been disturbingly lax after the events of last year.

Not that he could blame them.

There were still empty chairs and lockers that no one dared to touch, unadorned memorials to teachers and students who it was becoming tragically apparent would never again be there.

One of them had been Alex Penderson, the boy with fake piercings who had asked Calvin what it was like to "kick so much ass." He had been gunned down along with others when he had rushed the stage to try to prevent Candace Maple's abduction. Another had been his English teacher, Ms. Jenna Banners. She was firm but kind, had encouraged his writings both creative and analytical, and he looked forward to her class even when she was passing out tests. She was shot as an example, her only crime being within range of sadistic judge-worshipping fanboys with automatic weapons.

He had went to see Highweller after New Years, mainly to mock him, only to be informed that Highweller was in no state to be mocked- the official story was, his fellow death row inmates had been none too kind to him, and he had retreated deep into his mind to cope with daily assaults.

Calvin's own theory was that Andrew Derkins had gotten hold of him and made his displeasure known about the way Highweller had treated Susie. Even as he condemned torture, the atrocities inflicted on him, on Susie, on the city were too great for him to conjure up any sympathy. Confronting Andrew about it would do no good whatsoever and possibly infinite harm. Highweller could very well go free or be placed somewhere he had more freedom. Susie would not take the news well. And Calvin would lose an ally and gain an enemy for what would likely be perceived as a betrayal.

_Besides,_ the bitterness inside him spoke, _shouldn't there be a few people like Andrew around? People to make R.A.W. afraid? People that aren't afraid to get their hands dirty?_

The idea, before all of this, that there could be an organization dedicated to nothing but child abuse was an insane stretch to even Calvin. That a judge would go so far as to shooting up schools and blowing up hospitals over a war against a solitary student because he didn't think she was completely altruistic was laughable. Now he lived in a world tainted by well-founded paranoia and fear. Wasn't it reasonable that R.A.W. and people like Highweller had something to be afraid of in turn?

He snapped back to reality, only then aware that the teacher had been talking for several minutes and he hadn't heard a single word of what she'd said. Social Studies, 5th period.

For roughly two more hours, Calvin would have to pretend that he still cared about school.

…

The bus ride home was, for once, tolerable. People didn't ask him questions about what his kill count was at, how he got from Newden to Texas in such a short time, what it felt like to be the hero of Verdant Junior High…

…except he felt nothing like a hero. He didn't remember the people he saved- the boy who had lent him the paper clip stood out, but he'd directly interacted with him. Mr. Heighs, who had begged to be allowed to die in peace, and apologized later for his negative outlook. Beyond that, the only ones he really remembered were the ones lost.

Rhonda Lee. 15. Brilliant with a flute, could have gone on to be a master musician in college. She was gunned down in the first burst of gunfire, fired for no reason other than to demonstrate what would happen if anyone resisted.

Vincent Porter, 14. Quiet kid who kept to himself and expressed his worldview through art. He'd already done three commissions and had a fourth lined up. He too perished in the first burst of gunfire, head ripped open. It had left his father suicidal and his mother institutionalized.

Jerry Harper, 43. Science teacher who tried to make hours of memorizing formulas exciting with the occasional baking soda and vinegar explosion. Gunned down when he rushed the stage to try and help Candace Maple along with several other students.

He was asked to speak at funerals. Asked to talk about that day over and over, remember what scant shreds of those people's lives he could through memories of blood.

It was these tragic, senseless losses that made him harden his heart against feeling the slightest shred of remorse for the things he had done. That he **had **to do.

_I did what was necessary._

With no funerals to go to this afternoon, no homework, no murderers or madmen gunning for him, Calvin resolved to spend the afternoon vegetating in front of the TV. His mind needed cool-off time, even if it was just watching cartoon characters blow each other up…

He surfed for several minutes for something dumb enough to soothe the aches and pains of the year's mental rigors, when he heard the words "stringent discipline is necessary".

He flipped back two channels.

"…today have an incredible sense of entitlement, and the recent events, while tragic, do nothing to alleviate this sense of "I deserve whatever I want". The time to start instilling a sense of humility and obedience is **before** a child disobeys, not after." A blonde haired, stern looking man in a fancy two piece suit addressed the audience.

"But what your book is suggesting amounts to constant punishment regardless of behavior and "gaslighting" children repeatedly. These are techniques that would frowned on in military training, let alone child rearing." Argued the host, a glasses wearing woman in her 40s, red hair in curls as she regarded her guest with an incredulous look.

"I'm not arguing that the methods I'm outlining are harsh, Ms. Davon. I firmly advocate "Toughest Love". What you have to understand is that nowadays, the loving, kind, warm parenting we're used to advocating doesn't work. Children nowadays are, frankly, inherently criminal in nature, so what I am suggesting isn't meanness for meanness sake, its rehabilitation of an inherently rebellious, violent criminal mind that literally has no capacity for altruistic or even non-destructive actions."

"Then how, Mr. Malefides," responded Davon, voicing the argument Calvin was about to say aloud, "do you explain the actions of Susie Derkins? Or the actions of her fellow students? Or Calvin Halgins, who helped bring a corrupt judge to justice?"

"Ah," nodded Malefides. "Susie Derkins is… an unusual case. What you have here is someone who **thinks** they're doing the right thing, but as history has shown us, time and time again, the repercussions of allowing an immature child spearhead attempts to positively change society is a bit like offering poisoned food. If you consider Highweller's analysis of her actions-"

"Highweller?" disbelief showed in Davon's face and voice. "You're basing your argument off the teachings of a terrorist?"

"Before Susie and Calvin," Malefides replied solemnly, "he was a respected judge. As I was saying, Highweller's analysis, paraphrased from his site, was that even if, and that, taking into account the inability of minors to think with genuine altruism is a big **if, **she was genuinely doing the charity as a benefit to the homeless and not as a smokescreen operation, then someone else would, namely one of the hundreds of kids who joined the charity. A few friends join? I could see that. Her whole class? Maybe on a good day if they were bored. The whole school gives up a weekend to help out for no pay? That at the very least speaks of the school being dangerously impressionable by one student."

"As for Calvin…" Malefides took a deep breath. "…well, you've read my chapter on him, haven't you?"

_Chapter?_ Calvin thought numbly, as the disgust with Malefides' stubborn insistence that Susie was either delusional or deceptive faded. _He wrote an entire chapter about me?_

"Yes, and it's libelous-" Devon spoke, but Malefides held up his hand, interrupting her.

"The word 'terrorist' gets tossed around a lot. We've seen it used on Highweller and his community, but in reality, it was less terrorism and more a desperate attempt to force his world to make sense- Susie's actions demanded he address them, and then Calvin struck repeated retaliatory blows by blowing videos out of proportion and painting Highweller as a sadistic child-hating monster, and as psychology has shown us, if you treat someone like a monster, if you tell someone they're a monster, they will eventually act the part." Malefides said with a sad downcast look.

"Calvin, on the other hand… what defines a terrorist? When we hear the word, we think of manifestos. Of disorder. Of trying to upset the government. Of body counts. Of our hometowns being attacked without provocation. Highweller's actions, while by no means legally justifiable, were retaliation against repeated assaults by Calvin, which began as simple written undermining and escalated into a full blown attack on the Highground community…"

"…which was done in response to a school invasion and bombing attempt, Mr. Malefides!" Devon shouted, patience finally snapping, some of her audience echoing her exasperation.

"It's tit for tat, Miss Devon. No matter how sympathizers like you want to sugarcoat it, the upshot of the facts is Highweller was a strict but fair judge who was pushed over the edge by the acts of a terrorist in the making, and the world deserves to know about it!"

Calvin clicked off the TV as the discussion devolved into both of them shouting at the top of their lungs. He had known, at the back of his mind, it wouldn't possibly end with just Grindstone or Highweller. Rod and Whip was still out there. There were still Highweller sympathizers.

He should have seen it coming, then, he concluded as he stood in the quiet of his living room, that they would start attacking him as he had them.

First things first. He had to get a copy of the book, and see just how big a bastard Malefides had painted him to be…

…

"_Let me begin by stating that I am well aware that using a living person as a strawman for an author's arguments is usually a poor decision, as is ad hominem attacks on said living person. These are, typically, the last resorts of those who have no more ammunition to rationally debate their position. However, in this case to ignore the person in question, Calvin Halgins, would be an even more grievous error, and so I hope, dear reader, you will understand the position my wife and I have taken."_

"_Calvin's actions come off, at first glance, to be something of a modern day hero. Boldly questioning the actions of supposed tyrants and leaping into actions when the supposedly innocent are wronged. But let's take a step back and ask ourselves the old riddle of the chicken and the egg. Which came first- Calvin, or the criminal actions of Highweller off of which he boasts so much acclaim?"_

"_Highweller's past as a judge is, admittedly, checkered from a standard point of view. Harsh punishments levied on minor offenses and a distinct disfavor for those who challenged their charges, even when they proved to be innocent. But was Highweller simply, as Susie Derkins claimed during her trial, lording over those brought into his courtroom for a power trip? Hardly. Examined closer, his rulings indicate a deep concern for the state of the nation, in which nowadays any disciplinary action is met with accusations of child abuse. In the cases where his teen defendants challenged their charges, we do see intensified efforts to threaten and coerce them into rescinding their defenses, but this is not the vindictive "hanging judge" Calvin has painted him to be. It is a rational, justified concern that if a minor successfully challenges the law and wins, they will aspire to greater acts of rebellion. We have seen such behavior in Calvin Halgins, whose actions began with badmouthing Camp Grindstone and escalated into an assault on the Highground Community, leaving thirty dead."_

"_Thirty dead people, with hopes, dreams, aspirations, whose only crime was to gather around the one person who made sense to them. I can already hear the rebuttal- that this attack was deserved, because a day ago members from the Highground community attacked Verdant Junior High. Allegedly, students involved in this attack identified some of the dead as the same who had participated in the attempted bombing, but let's remember a few things- our sources for this attack ever happened are students who rallied behind Calvin and Susie. One of the military responders to the Highground Massacre was Susie Derkins' father, Andrew Derkins. I hesitate to propose conspiracy theories, but I would be negligent if I failed to note this as suspicious."_

"_In short, looking at Highweller's aggression towards innocent parties protesting their charges, and looking at the events that led to his tragic downfall, we can see less of a tyrant judge and more of a person who was well aware of what problems could occur from such legal victories. In the end, what is more important to the longevity of this nation? One presently innocent teen being able to emerge victorious in a courtroom? Or avoiding yet another Calvin and another Highground?"_

-Excerpt from Chapter 10 of "Get With The Program!"-"Combative Anarchic Lying Vindictive Irresponsible Nightmare."

…

Jason Fox fought the urge to laugh as he read the title of the tenth chapter in what he was now certain was a manual to drive minors criminally insane. Acronym insult titles and a heaping amount of insane logic would have made the read funnier if the author wasn't so depressingly convinced of their own reasoning.

Calvin was, at the very least, a lunatic. That was not a point he was going to argue. With all due respect to the boy who had helped them escape the facility alive, what other terms were applicable to someone who topped off a summer spent taunting child abuse cults with a commando assault against a sociopathic judge's vanity hometown?

That being said, even a lunatic could have a valid point, and Calvin's blogs had put forth little that Jason or any intelligent person could argue with. The first and most often repeated argument was that Rod and Whip's methods- or anything approaching them- were surefire ways to either kill a child or instill in them the rebellion so feared in the first place. The second, more recent argument had been about one particular girl's trial.

Susan? Sue? Susie, yes that was it, was the focal point of his recent entries and apparently his movement from Omnijournal to a personal website. The girl had apparently run afoul of an out of state judge by running a charity event that offended said judge because he interpreted it as a deceptive act. It had been such an utterly ludicrous idea at first that Jason had dismissed it as Calvin turning to attention whoring.

Then he had heard about the assassination attempt. The kidnapping and torture. The raiding of his school, the abduction of Susie and her friend, and somewhere around reading a headline about Calvin having stormed Highground and rescued Susie he had developed a migraine that necessitated medication.

It seemed insane, the very notion that a thirteen year old boy could be responsible for a full fledged rescue mission.

But the world, Jason reminded himself, had gone insane.

He had been attacked in his own home, forced to kill multiple attackers, then kidnapped by sleeper agents posing as cops, tortured and imprisoned by a group of madmen and sadists who killed kids and called it discipline, broke free in what could only be described as a miracle, and in the process of accidentally freeing two other people, he had gunned down-

…and here, as Jason's mind wandered into waters his therapist had warned him not to, he groaned, aches of healed wounds lingering, memories of carnage returning.

He had gunned down so many people he had lost count. It was one thing to lose count when the victims were virtual, it was another when they were flesh and blood. The fact that they were as close to pure evil as Jason had ever seen was, however, a major mitigating factor, to both his conscience and to the public eye, but still sometimes the images of bodies spasming from being riddled with bullets and visions of armed assailants plagued his sleep.

What truly haunted him were the children. Up until then, Jason had heard of child abuse, of molesters, of all manner of hypothetical boogeymen that lurked on unwatched corners and offered candy to unsuspecting little kids, but he had comforted himself with the idea that they were evadable, and that with the right precautions one would never meet them.

Then he had met Rod and Whip, an organization of who-knows-how-many, with exceptional resources, that actively sought out youths solely, as far as he could discern, to torture them to death. He had, in the desperate hours after the facility's self-destruct was averted, used the facility's internet and phone to summon as much medical assistance as humanly possible, but it still had not been enough.

Children died before their parents got to see them. Or were found to have died and been cremated long ago despite ransom payments. Many of the survivors were crippled physically, emotionally, or both.

Not that Jason could exactly hold them at fault. How did you get back to normal after being kidnapped and taken to a place of torture and hopelessness, or, God forbid, sent their by your own parents? How could you ever trust anyone after that sort of experience? Even now Jason jumped whenever the doorbell rang- he had greeting Marcus with a flamethrower super soaker, and when he had (admittedly reasonably) demanded to know what the hell was going on, he had told him.

Marcus hadn't believed it, initially. Again, who could blame him? It was only after being shown evidence that coincided with Jason's story that he eventually grasped, with a deadened look in his eyes, the new world they were thrust into.

And so he had helped with the current project. Researching the names of victims, alive and dead, of Rod and Whip and the Grindstone camps. Trying to find leads. Jason knew there were other facilities from what he had seen in the files- but whether they were operational or not was beyond him.

Back to the book at hand, it seemed to be little less than a love letter to both the Grindstone mentality and Highweller's assertion that all pre-adults were monsters. Its chapters alternated between advice on discipline- gaslighting children and punishing them for following rules (with the stated intent that eventually being allowed to follow an order without punishment would make them happy to obey) and long rantings about how everyone that so much as suggested Highweller and Grindstone might be wrong were either horribly misguided or in on the "Violent Youth Conspiracy".

He turned to a new chapter, and for a moment, stared at the title- Jumbled Anarchic Sociopath Obscuring Necessities.

For a moment, he felt offended that whoever wrote this associated his name with such a nonsensical acronym, then he read on.

"_Hero. Genius. Wonderkid. These are some of the titles that many have given Jason Fox after the media ate up the sensationalized fabrications of the Grindstone story. Reviewing his past, however, reveals a disturbed egoist whose life is anything but heroic. Whether it has been water balloons or illegally modified model rockets, Jason Fox seems to have only one passion, and that is destruction. While his supporters point to his disarming of the alleged bomb at Grindstone, and that said methods supposedly helped to disable yet another hypothetical bomb set at Newden Junior High, his past speaks of an attention demanding sociopath who is willing to endanger random citizens for what amounts to a cheap laugh."_

Jason envisioned setting the author on fire, chuckled, and found that he couldn't really argue with that last point.

"_Was there really a bomb in Grindstone? Were those children really beaten so hideously and cruelly? Or did a combination of a trigger happy Jason and an overzealous S.W.A.T. team necessitate an intricate lie to cover up the deaths of children who desperately needed reforming?"_

He paused, reread the last few lines, unsure he had read correctly, but there it was- a blatant denial of facts reported on by multiple angles and news stations, dismissing hundreds of articles of evidence and government investigations for the sole purpose of blaming **him **for those children's deaths.

Kids as young as three flogged, denied food and water, their hopes crushed for nothing more than some sadist's… _enjoyment, _and this idiot, this scandalmonger puts their deaths at his feet, claiming that the horrible tales recounted by the survivors were nothing more than falsehoods to cover up his crimes, that every single child and teen who didn't die was in on the whole thing…

The red haze broke for a moment, and he saw that he had torn the pages that offended him to shreds, his breathing feral and ragged, acidic rage burning the back of his throat.

It was one thing to dismiss him as an attention whoring fool. It was another to call him a murderer and a monster.

…...

"_What is External Parenting?"_

"_External Parenting is something we've seen in many forms over the years. Time was, if an adult caught you doing something you shouldn't and gave you a spanking or licking, your parents thanked them, not sued them. Recently, it's been the concerned phone call when someone suspects abuse or neglect. The forms of EP that society tolerates are all concerned with making life better for the minor in question."_

"_But what do we do when we have an out of control minor? One whose parents can't- or won't- discipline? The answer is logical- take action yourself. Step in where their parents decided not to. In cases of child abandonment, we don't give the child money and expect them to just get by, we get them into a foster home."_

"_It's time we stopped being afraid to discipline other's children because we're afraid of what society will think. Society thinks that teens who rampage through a rehabilitation center killing everyone in their path are heroes. Society looks at a boy who brags about these misdeeds and then commits more in a twisted expression of love for a con-artist and says "He's a hero!" Ladies and Gentlemen, if you are concerned about what society thinks about you, look at what it thinks about the dangerous ones."_

"_When a delinquent's parents cannot or refuse to do the bare minimum of the job that society requires them to do- ensuring their offspring do not grow up to be sociopaths with an entitlement complex- it is up to you, the Concerned Elders, to use External Parenting to your best judgment. And if someone asks who gave you the right, feel free to tell them I did."_

"_Because I'll take liability over another Calvin or Jason any day."_

-Excerpt from Chapter 8 of "Get With The Program!"-"Tough Times = Tough Measures"

…

James Malefides looked himself over in the mirror.

His brown hair was dyed blonde. His sagging cheeks now tight. His nose more shapely. He was the model appearance of perhaps, a middle aged tv-show host, charismatic, handsome. His wife had come off the surgeon's table looking years younger- her dull brown hair flecked with grey now a crimson red. Bigger breasts. More shapely. Liposuction. The visually perfect companion to his TV-star looks.

Their accommodations were small, a one floor house, but more than decent by today's standard, luxurious by what they had been getting used to back at the R.A.W. facility.

Luxurious, and doubtlessly bugged. There was no way, considering how stringent they were inspected back at the facility, that they would be allowed absolute freedom.

They had been watching the interview, at least.

He had expected a tongue lashing at the very least for how the interview went down- Devon had adamantly refused to allow any point to go unchallenged, eventually calling the book a child abuser's handbook- but to his surprise and relief, Goabes told him that was expected and to simply press on.

Not that it helped his wife one iota.

Penny Malefides, once Grace Wellfields, was well enough on camera. At a glance, no one could tell anything was wrong. She was enthusiastic in defender their joint project, "Get With The Program", she had rehearsed her stances and defenses as R.A.W. had dictated them, but behind closed doors James saw that this had killed her spiritually.

Not that they had any small reason to feel guilty or ashamed. Forty-four children of their congregation, dead. His own daughter hated them both with a passion and wasn't shy about condemning them at every opportunity in the press. They were one of thousands now wanted in what was quickly becoming a global manhunt for the most despised terrorist group in history.

Penny couldn't even bring herself to cook much. It reminded her of Faith's sandwiches and all the cooking she had done- they had eaten mostly takeout. She cleaned, but obsessively and to the point of exhaustion, collapsing into bed when she was done. Intimacy between them had withered during the four years before they had joined R.A.W., and now it was wholly dead.

They had instructed him to regard the book as his new bible, and he had done so. He had memorized every detail, every argument, elaborated on every false anecdote, praised for doing so by Goabes. To be honest, for someone who was facing charges of child abuse before, James was doing good for himself. He wasn't the most popular person- authoring a book about child discipline had that effect in this day and age. Yes, he was still… _frazzled _was the best word. His life had been turned upside down. His former congregation was certainly displeased with how things had turned out. But all things considered, he felt that life had taken a better turn.

All he needed to do now was convince his wife of that.

The cellphone Goabes had given him rang. He picked up immediately, delays were seldom tolerated. "Hello?"

"Adjusting well, Mr. Malefides?" Goabes voice was congenial. "Your Press Conference has been booked for tomorrow afternoon. Hundreds of people who bought your books will be in attendance as well, so it goes without saying that it is crucial you keep up the level of performance we've come to expect from you."

"Absolutely, sir." Malefides agreed.

"One more thing, though. One adjustment to your speech- so far we've asked you to be subtle in the condemnations of the targets."

The targets. Jason Fox, Calvin Halgins, Curtis Wilkins, Chutney Darly, Veronica and Hope Miles, and his own daughter, Faith. All children and those who spoke against abuse were hated by R.A.W., but those seven held a special place in their hearts. Out of a need for subtlety (or what passed for subtlety by R.A.W.'s standards) the accusations had been kept to a bare minimum, though Malefides felt, personally, painting Jason Fox as a murderer was begging for a lawsuit.

"That changes today. Rile the people there up. Get them angry at the targets. If you have to out and out say it was all a plan by them to get attention and sue Grindstone, do it."

With some horrible mix of pride and shame Malefides knew he was up to such a task. "Should I call Calvin the Antichrist?"

"If you can make them believe he **is** Satan, go for it. I want them leaving that conference thinking that if they met a target on the street and shot them, they'd be doing the country a service."

Out and out war, then. That sort of attack screamed slander, but R.A.W. claimed they would defend them against lawsuits…

"Right. Anything else?" Malefides forced himself to sound confident, cool, collected. He needed this time with his wife to adjust her to their new reality- if she was sent back to the stifling R.A.W. center he would never be able to rekindle anything between them…

"No, that's it. Poor on the venom, avoid using references or phrases you did as Wellfields. We'll contact you again when it's done."

And with a click, Goabes hung up.

So that was that. He was going to outright encourage the murder of his own daughter and six others whose only crimes were speech and survival.

He dared not give voice to the thing he dreaded, for fear the walls had electronic ears and eyes, but his only hope now was that whatever deity presided over the world was every bit as cruel and vindictive towards children as he had preached.

There was no hope for him otherwise.

…

"…_in response to the gentleman's question about whether my writings on Calvin and Jason could be interpreted as advocating outright warfare on them, I ask in response, have they not already proved they are willing to do so? Against the law? Against authority? Against anything that so much as chafes them?"_

"_Incidentally, I spoke with a former employee of Grindstone's boot camps, forced to resign after the scandals ruined his career as a youth counselor. He was devastated to learn that the methods of tough love he used as desperate last resorts to reform tomorrow's drug lords and mass murderers into passable citizens were ignored in favor of outrageous lies. It's bad enough Calvin goes out of his way to deny all the good work people like this man did, but to paint these detestable falsehoods about "kids being chained up" and "daily floggings with barbed" wire isn't just libelous, it's indicative of the horribly depraved mind Highweller feared."_

"_Oh yes, I know what's coming next. 'But they have proof that there were tortures!' Funny how that proof only came out after five days of the FBI and several SWAT teams skulking about in that facility. Five days is an awful lot of time to a group like that with resources. Time to hide things, and time to bring in new things."_

"_I must sound insane, insinuating that there's some great conspiracy between Calvin, Jason, Ms. Miles and the FBI. No, I don't believe this premeditated on the government's end. What is frighteningly more probable than Calvin's sensationalist tale of horror is that he and Jason conspired with Ms. Miles to perform a false flag operation. All it probably took was a few shots from a zip gun and they had the panic they so desired. A few calls to the FBI later, a few snap judgments in who to shoot by responders, and to keep it under wraps, Calvin agrees to concoct one of the most outrageous campaigns of slander in history."_

"_As for my contact, he remains unemployable, abandoned by friends and family, his life in shambles. All because a few people decided to play up a lie. Years of job experience gone. All he has left is his dwindling savings he has to consume to stay alive."_

"_But he is not the only one to have suffered from the indignities of lies. You may have heard the story about the "Church of the Unyielding Rod", supposedly acting as supporters to this mythical "Rod and Whip" organization. Most of the information on the church comes from Faith Wellfields, whose tragic tales of abuse and humiliation come conveniently before the dust has even settled."_

"_But where is my proof? Where indeed? I don't have logs of Calvin and Jason plotting. I don't have a tape recorder or a video to show you. What I do have, however, are numbers."_

"_153 children ranging from ages three to 15 dead during the Grindstone incident. 47 personnel working at the facility killed. Nineteen dead at the Verdant Junior High incident. 30 dead, 22 critically injured in a personal rampage on the now ghost town of Highground, Texas. In the Newden Central Hospital bombing, a total of 58 people dead, 45 injured, and millions in property damages. Ladies and Gentlemen, everywhere Calvin Halgins goes, people __**die.**__"_

"_By now, many of you expect me to put on a tinfoil hat. Laying nearly 300 deaths at the feet of one child's ambitions is certainly an outrageous claim. But are his claims not more ludicrous? That there is an entire cult dedicated to the torture of children and he was just lucky enough to invade one of their 'torture facilities' and shut it down? That Highweller's actions were completely unprovoked? Finally, I must ask this final question: if everything he's said is true, then by what logic is he still alive?"_

"_Calvin blends opinion and fact like some sort of poisonous cocktail, giving it to anyone who will listen. Jason bolsters these lies with a willingness to commit murder and acts of wanton destruction. Veronica Miles, through her child's 'testimony', has made an entire career out of building on lies, and people like Curtis and Chutney go along with it, because to them, the destruction of order and hard work is the epitome of recreation. I therefore feel completely justified in giving my __**own**__ opinion- with someone who spreads death and destruction wherever they go, boasts about it, encourages rebellion, demonizes authority figures and makes saints out of subversive individuals… if someone were to stop these people's insatiable lust for chaos once and for all, I say that would be not a crime, but a service to all mankind!"_

-Conclusion of James Malefides' Press Conference regarding his new book, "Get With The Program!"

…

Jason Fox's recent days in eighth grade were by no means comfortable.

It was bad enough that the army wannabes asked him how it felt to shoot someone, that the hippies condemned him to his face for violence, that the whole school believed him to be a hero, a hardened killer, or a psychopath ready to explode, depending on who you asked and when you asked them.

Then the adults had joined in.

It had started relatively small, at first. A few complaints to the principal, largely ignored, brought only to his attention when the complaining parents had called him at home to rant blindly and suggest he check himself into a psych ward.

Then several teachers suggested that Jason was too 'damaged' to return to school, others espoused that this was some big conspiracy, quoting from Malefides' guide to psychological warfare and torture statistics that had no basis, facts drawn from thin air, and concluding from the whole mess that Jason needed to be locked up. Some could be talked into something resembling sanity, given the evidence and testimony of the survivors. Others had firmly convinced themselves of Jason's criminal status and refused to change.

Now Jason was sitting in a cramped counselor's office, called out of class in the middle of a test, no less. He glanced at his watch. It had been fifteen minutes since he'd been told that the counselor would be with him shortly.

Finally, someone entered, a man in his early thirties, brown hair with a bad spot on top, a rotund belly, wearing a plaid shirt and khaki pants. He lumbered into his chair behind his desk with all the grace of a drunken hippo, flopping on the desk a folder.

This was no one Jason knew. Yes, he had been to the counselor before, during August, and the frumpy yet kindly old man's sole concern was that Jason wasn't going to kill himself. He had been blunt, but understood that it was incredibly hard to focus on schoolwork and deadlines when you were still waking up each morning choking back screams. He had been able to be frank with him, because even if he didn't understand what it meant to have done what he had, he still understood it was traumatic.

No such empathy showed in this man's face as he leaned on the desk, pushing his glasses up onto his face. "I'm very concerned, Jason."

Jason suppressed a groan. No conversation that began with a school administrator saying they were "concerned" ended happily. He resolved to end this quickly.

"I'm not sure what there's to be concerned about, Mr…." he trailed off, inviting the unidentified lummox to introduce himself.

"My name is Mr. Baxter, and I'm here to help you make some important decisions."

Condescending voice. The 'I'm here to help you' routine. This conversation would not end well at all.

"This is about the complaints, isn't it?" Jason cut to the point, irritation building in the back of his skull. "Yeah, I'm still scared, but that's no reason to treat me like a criminal."

Baxter looked down at the desk, opened the folder, retrieving a few pages. "Let me read you something. 'Jason needs to get help before he kills again.' 'I don't want my daughter going to school with that lunatic.' 'He's dangerous and needs to be locked up.' The thing is, Jason, a lot of people are having a hard time believing your story, and lots of people are _concerned_ about whether or not you're able to function in this school."

"It's not **my** story." Jason snapped. "There's evidence. Videos they took of children being beaten, ransom letters they were going to send out, bombs, weapons, witnesses, the FBI is still trying to find the other facilities…"

"Jason," Baxter said calmly, "I think you and I both know how easy it is to make something up with a computer these days."

That settled it. This overweight idiot was going to shove aside a literal mountain of evidence to entertain some quack child-psychologist's idea of a conspiracy theory. He got up from his seat, grabbing his backpack.

"Jason, sit down, we're not done-"

"Yes, we are. You're not listening, so neither will I."

He swung open the counselor's door.

There, blocking his way, were fifteen angry men and women. Some he recognized as parents that had came over, barging into the house to squawk at him and his parents. Others he recognized as the teachers who believed he was a ticking time bomb.

His hand dove into his pocket for his cell phone, when two of the men stepped forward, grabbing him and pinning him to the ground, one crushing their knee into his back. He had finished dialing and hit call, desperately clinging as they tried to wrench the phone away, eventually knocking it out of his hands as he heard someone pick up. "MOM, THEY'VE GOT-"

*CRUNCH* One of the others brought their foot down on the phone, crushing it in a crumpled heap of sparking plastic.

"I tried to make this easy, Jason. But just like Malefides said, Liemakers like you won't listen to the truth. By the authority granted us as your Concerned Elders by Malefides' law of External Parenting, we are taking you into rehabilitative custody."


	2. Exit Plan

Guide To Ruin

Chapter II: Exit Plan

DISCLAIMER: I don't own Calvin and Hobbes, Foxtrot, Curtis, or really any comic strip. This is a fan-based parody, if you could call it such, that went from a one-time rant against touchy issues into something I didn't foresee.

There is no organization like R.A.W. or Highweller's town in reality. The villains in this series, while based off real-life mentalities, are fictional. Let's pray they remain that way.

…

"_Mr. Malefides, you have laid at my feet and the feet of six others the responsibility for hundreds of deaths, millions in property damage, and a nation gripped in fear, all in the name of your book's ideology that children are inherently criminal beings. From that assumption you have drawn the conclusion that it is only logical that the Grindstone liberation was some sort of grand conspiracy against well-meaning disciplinarians."_

"_You have gone so far as to give a binary decision as to what Susie Derkins is, with both options negative. By your description, she is either a dangerously deluded individual or she is a con artist extraordinaire, seeking nothing else but to set in motion a plan for anarchy so convoluted that to accuse her of such an idea is not only insulting to her morality, but her intelligence."_

"_You claim to have the authority to make killing us an act of justice. I have spoken to several judges and lawyers on the matter, and confirmed what I already knew- you have no such authority vested in you by the nation's government, nor is saying that you claimed to grant such liberties grounds for exoneration for attacking us. For someone who claims to have put countless years of legal and psychiatric research into their work, one would hope you would at least manage to not set your fans down a road to their arrest."_

"_After reading your insights on parenting, I became physically ill. I can only pray that this is all some sort of sick, twisted form of satire, though your adamant stance during your conference and how you riled your disciples into a mob-like frenzy diminishes this faint hope. You suggest constant derision. You advocate changing the rules to punish retroactively, even going so far as to blatantly suggest creating "catch 22" situations where there is no course of action a child can take that will not result in punishment, and treating whatever decision they do make as the "worst choice". The stated goal of this regimen of psychological and physical torture- that you, after all we have seen, would advocate flogging nauseates me- is that eventually, the child will become enthusiastic to be given the privilege of orders that will not result in punishment if obeyed."_

"_But you seem to forget or not care about an alternative outcome, one Calvin has spoken on in detail, using the Catch-22 Syndrome before you, might I add: eventually a child may realize that if they can take no action that will not result in punishment, they might as well do whatever they like. I find it sickeningly funny that a book that demonizes minors as 'nihilistic hedonists' would give excruciatingly detailed steps as to how to create the ur-example of such."_

"_As it stands, your book is based on drawing conclusions not from facts or statistics, but your own opinions, making quantum leaps between stating opinions as fact to conclusions that violate logic itself. The great thing about that, however, is that I am no stranger to this game, so allow me, in the spirit of your writing style, to draw my __**own**__ little conclusion:"_

_You act like my father, Matthew Wellfields._

_My father was full of shit._

_My father got dozens of children killed with his shit._

"_Therefore, by these 'facts', and the frightening number of fans I saw applauding at your conference, I draw the conclusion that your shit is going to kill us all."_

-Faith X's review of "Get With The Program!"

…

Phillips Baxter's resume in life was short and sad. A failed attempt at opening up a shop devoted solely to model trains and a career as a guidance counselor that, according to his last performance review, was mediocre on a good day. The complaints ranged from bad body odor to a condescending attitude, but the one constant whine was that he "didn't listen".

This was lunacy to Baxter. As anyone worth their salt as a counselor (to Baxter, at least) would tell you, counseling a child was 1% listening and 99% observation. He prided himself on knowing who someone was the moment they sat down, and so far his assessments had all been completely correct.

The issue came about when the recipient did not agree with his analysis, often for absurd or made-up reasons. One girl he identified as a homemaker fervently objected, citing her passion for chemistry. He had politely informed her that her teacher was being kind to her, that she didn't really have the drive or talent for that work, citing as proof a week long absence. She had made up some story about a funeral and he had tuned out, repeating his mantra of wisdom- "Stop making excuses, and start making progress."

She had run out crying, there had been whining phone calls, and the whole day had been an unprofitable headache.

In any event, she transferred out, meaning she was no longer his problem. Another more severe one, however, took its place.

He had been one of the many in Stirwood that had gone to Malefides' conference. The book had been an affirmation of things he'd suspected for so long after dealing with ungrateful children day after day, and the conference had cemented those ideas.

It had been after the conference that he had convened with such others to discuss one of the problems that resided back home in Illinois- Jason Fox. Hailed as a hero, Baxter knew he was otherwise even before the whole mess had started- dangerously egotistical. Destructive. Headstrong and confident. He had been content to leave him alone until he had received word of Jason's capacity for murder.

Something needed to be done, and that something they had agreed on was that Jason needed to be taken out of school and… dealt with. Ideally, they would make Jason give a confession that everything he'd said about the Grindstone incident was a lie, then kill him, cut him up, and dispose of him somewhere else. If worst came to worst, they'd just kill him, and that would be one less miscreant out on the streets planning God only knew what.

Except things had not gone anywhere near according to plan.

The first thing that went wrong was that he had gotten off a cell phone call and screamed for help. Now whoever was on the other end, probably a parent, was aware something was up, as well as anyone within earshot.

Not that being dragged along made him any quieter. Fortunately his office was near a door and the van they'd rented was waiting outside. Unfortunately, a kicking, screaming, biting 13 year old attracted attention, and one of his companions trying to explain it away that Jason Fox, famed for coolly defusing a bomb, was violently psychotic.

They had made it to the safe-house and dragged him into the basement when the sirens had started blaring. It had not been the best extraction. It had not even been a passable extraction. In fact, it was sloppy at best, and the target they were supposed to cow into fear was…

"I SWEAR TO GOD, YOU'RE ALL GOING TO DIE!"

…not acting fearful, even after being punched in the gut several times.

They had tried tying him to a chair. That had earned one woman a kick to the face and a bloody nose. It was only when Baxter jammed a handgun into his face that he settled down.

"I want this to end peacefully, Jason." Baxter spoke calmly, hand shaking only slightly. "But if you don't cooperate I can't help you-"

His cell rang where he'd left it on a table, startling him.

"Who is it?" he asked the kicked woman, now holding her nose.

"Ids… Ids the skool." She mumbled as she clutched her nose. At best the principal was calling to find out why he'd gone awol. More likely the combination of screaming, witnesses, and both his and Jason's absence had made him the prime suspect.

He ignored it, for now. No good would come of answering it at this point.

"They know." Jason taunted. "If I don't walk out of here unharmed, you're as good as dead."

Another one of Baxter's allies, a 40-odd year old man with a beer gut, strode over to Jason and bashed him across the face with a backhand, snapping his glasses.

"You filthy, liemaking son of a whore. You think we care if you die?"

"Maybe." Jason spat blood. "I hear child killers don't do well in prison."

The man, who had introduced himself as Pete- last names were something you didn't want to share on these sort of endeavors- snorted. "It's Malefides idea, not ours. He gave us the authority, so it's not illegal!"

Jason looked at Pete, to Baxter. "…you both honestly believe that just because he said he gave you the authority you're not going to prison?"

"Unlike you, Liemaker, Malefides has no reason to deceive us." Pete asserted.

The boy pinched his bleeding nose, sighing. "…look. Go ahead. Kill me. But please, **please** give me one last dim hope in humanity and tell me one of you is smart enough to know just because someone writes a book and says killing people is fine doesn't mean you should listen to them. You know, like "Mein Kampf"?"

What was he babbling about now? "Minecomp? Like that game with blocks? What does that have to do with anything?" Baxter demanded.

…

There was blood on Jason's hands and cracks in his mind, and even he would admit this was the case. One did not go through what he had seen and done without some… damage.

Stress points in which fractures could splinter like spiderwebs under the constant onslaught of willful self-delusion of others, bloody hands straining to keep a slicked grip on sanity. An endless stream of idiots three times his age with half his IQ, who heard some grease-haired con artist's mad ravings, decided to ignore a literal warehouse full of evidence, and instead adhere to some mad fantasy concoction.

He had handled it well enough, he thought. No screaming outbursts in class, no violent fantasies about killing anyone (besides Malefides), no overdosing on the medication he was prescribed to make it all end.

But this day had worn on him. Called out during a test, breaking his very shaky train of thought, agitated him already. That it was done to harangue him over some idiot's cockamamie story how he had faked everything had been akin to tiny little drills in the back of his skull. The kidnapping had added a symphony of hammerings to his strained patience, and he knew he would die in that chair, because something was going to set him off, make that last, thin thread holding him back from insanity break, and he could only dimly wonder what that would be.

Then he had tried to make the parallel connection to his captors between Malefides' trash and Hilter's trash, and they had just given him…

Blank stares.

No one home.

It had been that one, little, trivial thing as he sat on trial before a jury and judge of idiots who believed lies with a happy "yes sir, who do you want me to kill because it makes my dick feel hard to hurt kids" and threw away truth because _it maybe kinda sorta suggested they might be not entirely correct in their assumptions and__** to hell with it let's just pull him out of school and shoot him because the grease-hair fucker said so, YEAH WHOOPIE WE'RE GENIUSES-**_

And then suddenly there really was blood on Jason's hands and shirt, on his face. Little splatters, like someone threw a water balloon filled with ketchup and it splashed him.

He was only aware of the gun after he'd dropped it.

What caught his attention, however, was… the silence. Oh there were the sirens of course, and the noise of someone kicking in the door, and "Son, son are you okay?", but the noise coming from the idiots' mouths… had stopped. The drilling and hammering in his head had stopped. All the cacophonic agony had simply ceased to be.

And it was then that Jason Fox felt like he was a toddler, playing with tinkertoys and watching everything fall apart, and Einstein had come down from heaven and shown him patiently how to make things work. _"No no, see these things here? They're in the way. To make the machine go the way you want to…"_

He looked on the corpse of Phillips Baxter, eyes still wide in horror, grasping his ruptured throat.

"…_you have to get rid of the things in the way."_

He felt himself being led to a police car with a blanket around him as he smiled.

"Oh. I get it now."

…

"Well, **fuck.**" Calvin cursed as he reclined in his chair.

Hobbes strode over to see what was the matter, looking at the computer screen. "What now- oh. Oh, yeah, that's definitely a fuck."

It seemed that Jason had taken the first wave of idiots. The story so far- pieced together from Jason's testimony as he was the only survivor- was that Phillips Baxter and multiple others had pulled him out of school in order to either coerce a confession that he'd made up the whole Grindstone story or kill him.

Jason had apparently enacted an alternative, which involved shooting sixteen people dead. Charges had not been filed yet, and likely never would be- making a case of murder stick against someone kidnapped by people three times his age was a difficult endeavor at best.

It would certainly do little to help Jason's mental state, however.

"How the hell did he manage to kill all of them?" asked Hobbes as he read, an incredulous (or at least as close a tiger could make) look on his face.

"Jason was the first guy to start shooting at the Grindstone facility. A bunch of idiots with guns and no training isn't unfeasible."

"…and you're still certain not informing of what happened with the bomb is the best idea?" Hobbes asked.

Calvin thought a moment. "…if I do tell him, it's going to open up a whole lot of questions, like "why didn't you just save everyone" and I don't feel like trying to explain how we think the gun works. I need him to trust me…" he looked at the article, recalling the terror and despair they had felt during those endless hours of running, shooting, and then desperately trying to save lives.

"…or at least as much as he can trust anyone right now."

…

"_I've heard some very disturbing reports as to how certain individuals have reacted to the methods I've prescribed."_

"_A number of well-meaning individuals took my words on external parenting to heart and attempted to rectify problem children in their areas. An officer had a boy performing illegal business sales arrested. A girl was detained for rehabilitative custody by a group of Concerned Elders who had evidence she was prostituting herself. And most assertively of all, a counselor and multiple concerned adults rallied together in a valiant attempt to convince Jason Fox to finally come clean about his role in the Grindstone façade."_

"_But apparently, there are people out there, determined to ensure no good deed goes unpunished. The police officer was put on paid leave for "wrongful arrest and assault". The Concerned Elders who detained the girl were arrested and charged with kidnapping and sexual assault. And most horrifying of all, all sixteen of the concerned adults who tried to force Jason to stop lying were killed by the very same psychopath responsible for so much death already. No charges have been filed. Sixteen people's deaths will be ruled the result of self-defense. Jason Fox and others like him now know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, the law is on their side when they go on shooting rampages."_

"_You might hear me give you the authority to go out and detain less-than-adults is a bit drastic. Others might go so far as to say that I don't have the authority to tell you that you should, for your country's well being, be ready to detain and reform, forcibly if need be, less-than-adults that exhibit morally reprehensible behaviors or that you deem potentially violent."_

"_To this line of thought, I ask in turn: Who gave Jason Fox the right to kill?"_

-James Malefides' response to the kidnapping and murder attempt on Jason Fox.

…

Marcus had seen a definite change in his partner in crime ever since the Grindstone debacle, and he didn't like it at all.

Jason had become what many would call paranoid, certain that around every corner was an ambush, that every new face was an agent of Rod and Whip, every police officer a double agent. That it was a matter of when, not if, someone was going to attack him again.

The stories, horrible, awful descriptions of murder and wounds, of sadistic men and women whose sole focus was torturing kids for what amounted to a delusional cause, would have been cause enough for Marcus to believe institutionalizing Jason was the right thing to do, had it not been for all the overwhelming evidence.

Now his best friend had been kidnapped again, this time by the school counselor and a bunch of strangers who had heard Malefides' lunacy, deemed it a great idea, and decided to commit kidnapping and murder on the spot.

Then Jason had killed everyone. Sixteen people in total.

Marcus had not been afraid of Jason. Even with the toll of Grindstone on him, Jason was still very much able to distinguish friend from foe. Even when he had heard the rumors of how coldblooded he was during the breakout, he hadn't been shaken. People were talking in hushed towns about an offhanded remark Jason had made, that he lost count of how many guards he had shot during his escape. Of course he had lost count- was there some unspoken rule that when fighting for your life, you were supposed to keep track of how many people you killed?

But sixteen armed people shot dead meant things.

It meant that either their reaction time was slower than a mentally challenged sloth's, or that Jason had landed killing shots on all of them in under ten seconds. Then there was the fact that he didn't know of any handguns that held sixteen rounds, meaning Jason either grabbed a modified weapon, or more likely expended a full clip of one gun and picked up another.

Which either meant Jason had been planning for if something like this was to happen, or he really _was_ as a natural born killer.

Marcus approached his friend's front door. He still wasn't afraid of Jason, but now he was afraid for him. He hadn't been to school since that incident, and for someone as proud of their grades as Jason, that was cause for worry enough,

The door swung open. Peter, Jason's brother, brandished a baseball bat. "I SAID, NO FUCKING INTER-"

He blinked. "…oh. Hi, Marcus."

"That kind of week, huh?" Marcus asked.

"People coming by every hour to ask if Jason's up for an interview. Others come by to rant that he killed good people. A few stop by to ask if… he saw their kids."

The look on Peter's face could have sobered up a bar full of drunks. A constant barrage of questions, accusations and pleas would wear at anyone's sanity. The circumstances surrounding them only exacerbated their negative effects.

Marcus walked in, plodded up the steps to Jason's room. The door had been replaced- Jason had mentioned it being kicked off its hinges when the R.A.W. agents had come.

A careful knock prompted sounds of rapid movement from within. "Jason, it's me, Marcus."

The door opened, and Marcus saw that Jason's health had taken a turn for the worse since the kidnapping incident. The bags under his eyes were nothing new- he developed them whenever a new video game piqued his interest and he played into the early hours of the morning- but the _lack_ in his face, the absence of energy, of hope was just depressing.

Jason's window was reinforced with bars, and there were several weapons he saw immediately in reach- a super soaker remodeled into a flamethrower. A baseball bat. A knife.

"Hey, Marcus." Jason forced his lips with obvious effort into a smile. "What's up?"

"I just came to check on you." Marcus responded, trying not to show how worried he was.

"You shouldn't be here." And the smile faded. There was no cruelty in the words, only cold factual statement. "If they associate you with me, they'll come after you as well."

"So?"

"So then they _kill you, _Marcus." Jason snapped. "They kill you and I get more blood on my hands."

"And so what am I supposed to do? Just leave you to hide in your room forever until they come for you? That's a win for them, making kids so afraid we'll never even speak to the people they attack." Marcus retorted. "I know you're going through tough shit. But that's a reason to have allies, not push them away."

Jason's face went through a myriad of emotions- shock, brief irritation, then, finally, a sort of resignation.

"I won't make you talk about it until you're ready to." Marcus offered.

His friend sighed with gratitude. "Thank you."

"Vidya?" suggested Marcus.

Jason smiled weakly but sincerely. "Vidya."

…

"_There have been, as expected, criticisms of my recent statements."_

"_I have been told things I already knew, along with no small amount of anger and vitriol. Yes, the boy I mentioned that was arrested was running a lemonade stand. Yes, the 10-year old girl was allegedly just walking home from school. Yes, Jason Fox was taken against his will. I am well aware of this last part, yes, even before the deluge of emails and letters determined to clarify this over and over arrived."_

"_However, the assumption all these letters make is that because the detaining was against the will of the child in question, that child must be innocent and everything they suffered as a result of the detaining nothing short of the foulest crime. Did the boy responsible for the lemonade stand make every effort to ensure he was in good legal standing? I would think not, children rarely consider the rules when deciding on a course of action. What about the girl whose dress got the concern of no less than seven Concerned Elders that she was prostituting herself? I have lost track of the number of emails jumping to the conclusion that a ten-year old is incapable of turning tricks, or at least dressing inappropriately."_

"_But most disturbing of all is the applause for Jason Fox. Let me put it into perspective. From what the police tell us, Jason was allegedly seated in a chair, surrounded by sixteen adults, several of which were armed. Now let's say this is entirely true. Killing sixteen people armed with handguns would be an astounding feat for a trained marine. A student does the same thing with no apparent formal training and we're supposed to just shrug and say he's __**lucky**__?"_

"_The fact that several of the Concerned Elders were armed has been used by his defenders as evidence that this was a kidnapping. Let us remember, however, that this was a boy who helped gun down counselors and workers at the Grindstone camp with no remorse whatsoever. Those brave enough to confront him logically feared for their safety, and, sadly, those fears have been proved wholly justified."_

"_This is all, mind, assuming the police report is in no way fabricated. One fan of mine sent me a disturbing but very logical theory, that Jason foresaw this, preparing both firearms and an alibi ahead of time. The Concerned Elders merely wanted to talk, but Jason wanted them dead, not out of fear, but out of irritation."_

"_With these repeated incidents of well-meaning Concerned Elders repeatedly being demonized for their actions, I feel it necessary to take action personally."_

"_I will be meeting with each of the aforementioned children to discuss a restitution plan to repay, in some small way, the damage they have inflicted on their elders."_

"_If any of you have religious inclinations, I would appreciate prayers of safety for when I speak to Jason Fox."_

-James Malefides speech regarding criticism of his statements.

…

Barry sat relaxed and stiff. Relaxed enough to not look nervous, even after the judges had ruled him no longer 'less than adult', there was still the instinctive response drilled into R.A.W. agents to viciously beat anyone not physically an adult.

Why they had called him here, to a meeting, had initially filled him with dread, but it became readily apparent that he would not be the focus of the meeting, at least officially.

He tried to ignore the glances cast at him by senior members. He had gotten his foot in the door, at least. It would take years to dissolve their initial distrust. It would take decades, maybe, to gain any measure of genuine confidence from them.

"I'm sure most of you have heard by now about Malefides'… impromptu decisions." stated Gathwells.

There was nodding around the table. Barry had heard about James Malefides, once Matthew Wellfields, and his efforts in the exorbitant position R.A.W. had afforded him. To his credit, Malefides had shown no signs of remorse nor guilt, preaching the book he had 'written' as fervently as he did his versions of scripture. But now he had requested funds to travel to meet with the families (against their wishes) of three persons of his interest to discuss/demand they make restitution. The lemonade kid. The elementary girl deemed a prostitute.

Jason Fox.

They had not minded his improvisational speeches, rather, his ability to make his belief in what he preached seem so incredibly real was an inspiration to R.A.W.'s breakers. Or maybe he really did believe every word, and so much more the better. But now, Malefides seemed bound and determined to throw himself in harm's way.

Jason Fox was a threat. There was no getting around that. It was the consensus that somehow he had disarmed the bombs and had some method of rendering weapons useless. Dealing with him required subtlety and precision- though Barry was going to suggest a nuke might be appropriate- and Malefides was coming dangerously close to jeopardizing the plan.

"He has… zeal." spoke Judge Grant, "But I worry he's overplaying his part."

Grant was the man who had knighted Barry. He had no first name (or at least Barry wasn't cleared to know it, and didn't care to know), part of R.A.W's hierarchy. The further up you went, the more you replaced your name with titles. Eventually your name was the title, your real name something secret and unspeakable. He had been a drill sergeant at one of R.A.W.'s many boot camps, and apparently had killed enough teens to earn the trust of R.A.W.'s upper levels.

"And what, may I ask, is wrong with that?" countered Judge Landers. "He was ordered to be bold, to rile up people sympathetic to our cause. Yes, he's going beyond what was explicitly ordered, but usually disciplinary measures are used in cases of underperformance."

She was a beautiful blonde with a kind face, and even now she seemed more suited to teaching a kindergarten class, but Barry had heard her file, and even as he feared her, he respected her. She had indeed been an elementary teacher, and every class she taught had at least three students attempt suicide.

"The problem is, he's our face. And a good one. We lose him, we're going to have a hell of a time finding someone willing and able to fill his position. And his wife… she hasn't shown any overt signs of turning traitor, but his death could be a trigger." Mused Derricks.

Richard Derricks was an unrepentant sadistic pedophile, scheduled for lethal injection until he had joined up with R.A.W., conveniently "died of natural causes", and now served as the go-to man for breaking R.A.W.'s more resilient prisoners. It had been made clear, Gathwells had mentioned, that Barry was off the menu, and so long as he abided by that law Barry was glad to have someone who could do what needed to be done.

"But he's the example we need." Landers objected. "We don't want our future allies cowering behind closed doors, we need them open, we need them bold."

"Yes, but that's all for moot if there becomes a clear connection between Malefides and R.A.W. If that happens, all his work could be turned against us!" snapped Grant.

"People are already going to make connections between him and us." Interjected Gathwells. "He is at the very least seen as a sympathizer. I believe I made my feelings on this project clear-"

"We are aware of your stance on this project, Gathwells, as I hope you are aware that you are the minority in opposition. I suggest you consider that." Interrupted Landers.

Gathwells was, indeed, opposed to the project. She had confided to Barry (well, ranted really) that what the book was advertising was a kinder, gentler Rod and Whip that eventually made obedient adults who in turn would use the same draconian methods on their children. Gathwells was very much of the mentality that 99.99% of children were to be tortured and exterminated without any thought of neoidentification.

Derricks made a sigh. "…what about you, Neoidentified? Any great insights you care to share?" his voice dripped with a combination of frustration and sarcasm- these meetings kept him from the tasks he excelled at, and it showed that he'd rather be somewhere else.

Eyes turned to look at Barry. Crushing his doubt and fear like an ant, Barry inhaled slightly.

"The project is, unfortunately, coming on the heels of two disasters- namely, public awareness of the Grindstone Facility five, and Highweller's actions."

There was a solemn air at the table, even Grant's eyes looked downward. Highweller had been a bold, unrelenting man, R.A.W. in everything but name. His final attempt to silence Calvin Halgins and kill Susie Derkins had regrettably failed twofold- Calvin raved all the more for the failed attempt, and what damage he had done had only made Newden vehemently angry at everyone who touted ideals that were akin to his or R.A.W.'s.

An agent had confirmed that retrieving him was a moot point- Highweller was in a catatonic state, groaning in pain, irresponsive to any stimuli. Whatever they had done to him, it had broken him completely.

"It therefore follows that _any_ attempt at putting up a face that preaches ideas even remotely similar to what we practice or what Highweller preached is going to anger the masses. This is not me trying to interject an opinion, it's simple facts."

Grant started to rise, frowned, considered Barry's words, then sat back down.

"As it is, things have been set in motion- he's already announced his intent. Backing down now could be interpreted as a number of things- that he's sympathetic to the "troubles" of these youths. Or that he's afraid of the repercussions. The first, I think it goes without saying, is obviously the worst possible outcome. The second is only salvageable at best."

"There is always the option of simply… letting things happen." Barry shrugged. "If he does this and… heaven help us all... succeeds, we've made major progress. If he does this and fails, we tell him to just dismiss it as the kids being beyond all help. If he gets shot and killed, he's a martyr."

Landers frowned deeply. "True, but what about the risk of him getting arrested and interrogated? What if he is offered reunion with his daughter and amnesty if he turns on us?"

Barry smiled. "Malefides won't betray us."

His confident response had the others present taken aback, it was Gathwells who broke the silence, looking confused. "What makes you so sure?"

Barry allowed himself to grin deeply. "Because we gave him something very precious to him, more valuable than his daughter, the house, his wife, or his church."

He allowed a moment of silence to make sure everyone was listening before he answered the question that was forming.

"We told him he was right."

…

"_I'm betting you all are waiting to hear me weigh in on Mr. Malefides' little guide to driving children to suicide, and you may be infuriated or pleased to know I purchased a copy of "Get with the Program" so I'll actually know what I'm talking about."_

"_The cover is unsettling right off the bat. A well dressed mother and father kicking punk-rocker kids into the air- very subtle, Mr. Malefides."_

"_Now, you may have heard the reviews the critics have given this book. "At best a hideously misguided attempt to use draconian tactics to create subservient children, at worst a torture manual." Lots and lots of glowing reviews, most of which describe Malefides as a sociopath, sadist, or both."_

"_I'm going to save you twenty bucks. I want you to imagine a room full of the most hateful, mean-spirited child and teen-hating adults you can think of, brainstorming ways to ruin children's lives while ranting about how girls who run charity events are secretly puppy-burning monsters. That's it. That's the whole book. The chapters alternate between ad hominem attacks on yours truly, Jason Fox, Curtis Wilkins, the Miles family, and Faith X for the hideous crime of not having rolled over and died when people tried to kill us. Except it doesn't come out and say that to your face, no, it offers up a convenient conspiracy theory about how the CIA and FBI all conspired to do a smear campaign on well-meaning adults."_

"_But it's not a funny read. After a few pages, the schadenfraude of seeing obvious logical fallacies and pitiful attempts at conjuring up conspiracy theories fades as Malefides describes in unsettling detail methods of physical and mental torture. Caning is there. So is gaslighting and belittling. But then he gets into detailed methods of denying kids bathroom "privileges" and how to punish them from the results stemming from that._

_Destroying or hiding school assignments. Planting contraband to be found. These chapters discuss plenty of ways to tear down someone, but not one iota on how to rebuild them."_

"_I had hoped that this was all some sick satire designed to intentionally leave us disgusted with the methods we've seen used by R.A.W. and advocated by Highweller, but Malefides' announced itinerary- trips to Jason Fox and two others to discuss 'restitution' after being attacked by "Concerned Elders"- leave me with little choice but to believe the worst possible scenario. Malefides believes what he's written. Every last hateful little paragraph."_

-Calvin's review of "Get With The Program!"

…

Matthew Wellfields looked himself in the mirror.

He looked like James Malefides. Talked like James Malefides. Had the bluff and righteousness of James Malefides. He acted like he had years of Harvard education under his belt, and the bribes R.A.W. had paid had ensured that at the very least, his credentials held significant weight. He knew 'his' book cover to cover.

But he was not James Malefides. Nor was his wife Penny Malefides. They were the Wellfields, the pastor and wife duo that had convinced a congregation to torture their children and failed to deliver on their promise that it would turn out for the best. They were the failures of parents whose own daughter had turned on them after years of abuse. They were the cowards who fled into the arms of a cult dedicated to child torture rather than admit being in the wrong.

Nevertheless, Matthew/James found himself telling Penny things were looking up, kissing her forehead even as she cringed at his touch, not feeling the pain he thought he would when she didn't even say goodbye.

It was better this way.

Goabes phoned him as he drove to the airport, for once concerned rather than demanding or calm. "Okay, we've got some sympathizers who will assist you with the interview with Jessica Mavin, but I gotta warn you, there's a lot of people who hate your guts. You're sure you can go through with this?"

"I'm ready, sir." Malefides responded.

"I gotta admit, I know I told you we expected you to take the initiative, but you must have a brass pair, sir. Good luck and Godspeed."

Malefides hung up as the line went dead.

There were stares and glares as he arrived at the airport. He packed light, aware his luggage could get 'lost'. He arrived three hours early to account for the extra screening by the security agents who desperately searched him for something, anything they could use to deem him a threat. He shut out the whispers and hateful looks as people recognized him and that recognition spread, and his presence became as welcome as a plague.

Malefides held his head high. Soon, it wouldn't matter what the world thought of him, or if his wife loved him, or what Goabes wanted next.

Because while he didn't know how the other two kids or their parents would react, he knew that Jason's reaction would be deadly. He was counting on it.

It was time to retire.


End file.
